Magdalene by Moriah Jovan Page B

her his arm and said,
“Likewise.”
    She sniffed. “I made a very good living
knowing how to treat men.”
    Mitch chuckled. “Nice to know I’ll be in
good hands then.”
    “You have no idea how good. Yet.”
     
     
    * * * * *
     
    Hey, Big
Spender
    December 31, 2010
    “Cassie, what is your problem?”
    Hell if I knew. I’d been pacing around the
house all morning, too restless to find any one thing and do it,
too wound up to watch TV, too distracted to catch up on household
business.
    “Go to work or something,” Clarissa snapped
before stuffing popcorn in her mouth.
    I stood in the kitchen and stared at
Clarissa, Olivia, and their boyfriends in the living room splashed
out in front of the TV for a New Year’s Eve Woody Allen
marathon.
    Something was wrong with this picture, but I
couldn’t figure out exactly what.
    They’d finish the movies, nap—have sex—all
afternoon and evening, then go clubbing all night long.
    My oldest and youngest were busy, too:
Helene would be at the hospital for the next thirty-six hours.
Paige had three performances today and two tomorrow.
    I didn’t want to go to work.
    But I didn’t want to be here, either.
    I could go to my room, but that felt too
much like I’d been sent there by my disapproving offspring.
    The phone rang and I snatched at it just
because it was something to do.
    “Were you planning to come in any time
today?” Susan asked.
    “It’s ten o’clock in the morning and I am
not there. What do you think?” I do my best work early in the
morning.
    “You need to come in today.”
    That didn’t sound good, but I didn’t want to
hear some chopped-up explanation for whatever had gone wrong. “All
right. Get Sheldon here.”
    I didn’t bother to change out of my sweats,
the “NYU” stamped across my tits and ass brittle, cracked, half
chipped off. I barely brushed my hair and went without makeup.
Battered running shoes, no socks, old gloves and stocking cap, and
I was out the door.
    “Ms. St. James,” Sheldon murmured as he
handed me into the car.
    “Good morning, Sheldon.”
    “Happy birthday,” he said when he finally
slipped into the driver’s seat.
    I stared at him. My driver was the
first person today to tell me that? “Uh, thank you, Sheldon,” I
said, but shook it off as he pulled away from the curb and into
traffic. “Any news?”
    “All quiet.”
    “I suspect Olivia’s being followed.”
    “She was . I took care of it.”
    I met Sheldon’s significant look in the
rearview mirror. “Permane—? Never mind.” He said nothing. “Did
Susan tell you why she called me in?”
    At that, he smirked.
    My curiosity as to what had happened at the
office deepened. I was a specialist, my department created for me
and all my support staff handpicked by me. Neither I nor my
employees got involved in the bank’s day-to-day business, and I had
given my staff the day off.
    I knew why Susan had gone in. She had her
eye on some kid in Payroll, and would use the opportunity to fiddle
around a little bit, play whatever computer game she was obsessed
with, then head on down to the human resources department for her
lunchtime stalking ritual.
    “So,” I said briskly as I came off the
elevator, pulling off my gloves and hat. To my surprise she and
Melinda were smashed up together right in front of Susan’s
computer, rapt. I didn’t have to be told what they were watching.
“What’s the crisis?”
    Susan paused their cooking show, looked
around Melinda at me, up and down, and said, “Geez, is it possible
for you not to look gorgeous?”
    “Huh?”
    “You come in dressed like a bag lady and
you’re still hot.”
    I laughed, unaccountably pleased, but
Melinda snorted. “I hate you.”
    “ Vittles ?” I asked dryly, stepping
behind the two Vanessa Whittaker fangirls.
    “I missed her when she was here, cooking at
Chez Fricassee,” Melinda said, looking up at me. “Did you?”
    “No, I ate there. Several times. She’s a
brilliant chef, but she